


What You Want

by dianekepler



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Time, PWP, dubcon, if the RV's a-rockin'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 21:52:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianekepler/pseuds/dianekepler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An RV and a hot day combine for a volatile mix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Want

**Author's Note:**

> This was started by an friend who does not wish to be identified. He wrote much of it, but then gave me permission to have my way with Walt and Jessie. Thus, I rounded it out, tweaked the characterization into something much more canon-appropriate, and wrote an ending. Call it an experiment in second-person present tense and short, declarative sentences. Hemingway's the bomb, yo.
> 
> The title is from that song by Aretha. You know the one. It also could have been called Against All Odds, but that's a Genesis title, and Genesis, as I've told SegaBarrett several times, is for old people. *ducks and runs away*

We're parked far out in the desert. 

I've hung my clothes on a hanger from the rearview. It's late afternoon. Through the dusty window I can see a gray dove perched on an ocotillo and in the distance a raven is croaking incessantly. It echoes up from the cliffsides to the west. 

It's hot. Even in just my briefs I can feel moisture beading on my skin. There's sweat on my hands inside their rubber gloves and under the plastic of my goggles. The fan barely helps -- it just moves wisps of your hair around in the dense air. I watch you carefully decant the batch into its final container on the hotplate. I adjust the temperature. You had it up too high. 

The heat in here is so intense that it's hard to even think. But I notice every detail including the sweat glistening on the back of your neck where your hair is pulled up into a ponytail. Your t-shirt shows a damp triangle between your shoulder blades and the outline of your bra.

You are so different from the slacker kid in my class who spent more time drawing than taking notes. Never once applied yourself. Thinking you were such a rebel, but rebelling against what? A comfortable suburban upbringing? It made no sense. I used to love school -- the challenge, the discipline. Not like you, with your gloomy self-indulgence, getting high with your friends and as you wasted your life among corn snacks and Monster drinks, or whatever the fads were back then.

You were never any good at school and yet you take right to this. You remember every step of the first cook we did my way. Not that I'd admit this -- you're already too much of a pain in the ass. However, you're no longer the clumsy kid that you were at Wynne and -- I will admit this -- you're no longer a kid at all. You're a good-looking woman and when you bent over to get the spoon that would help the cool-down, I could see the very top of your ass above the waist of your low-slung jeans, two dimples and just the suggestion of a cleft. 

Wait, what am I doing? What are you doing? Okay, you're taking it off the plate. Right on schedule, Pinkman, good.

"Fucking hot in here..." you mutter, as if it needs to be said. You go on stirring.

"Have some more water."

"It's already piss-warm. Would it've killed you to bring some ice?"

"It wouldn’t last," I mutter. Can you form maybe one sentence without throwing an obscenity in?

"Then how about a cooler. You know? Those things with soda?"

Your tone sets my teeth on edge. "We’d drink too much. Then sugar would make us crash."

"Then get diet, jeez." You roll your eyes, dismissing me and my obviously medieval views on what people should drink in the desert. 

I do not sigh. I summon every ounce of will to keep from doing it. You'll finish this batch, we'll take a break and then maybe you'll act more reasonable. Or I can dream about it.

But it’s not over. "I don't know why you had to pick the butthole-hottest day . . . ."

The sigh escapes despite my best efforts. "I'm not the one wearing long pants and long sleeves."

"I'm not gonna streak around like this is some kind of titty bar.” You cast a judgemental look my way. “I’ll leave that to the pros.”

"Except the chemicals collect in the fabric. Once the toxicity is in the fibers, it’s like wearing A lab on your back.”

"Shit, really?" Before I can blink, you untie your apron, shuck it, and without waiting to take off gloves or goggles, lift your t-shirt off over your head. 

I need to act like this is no big deal. But, God, your breasts. I can see the outlines of your nipples through a thin white bra that it seems you barely even need. The urge to turn away is strong and yet I can't be awkward or this will be more embarrassing for both of us. There's nothing to do in here anyway. Nothing besides watch you step out of your sneakers and jeans to finish the cook. Nothing but stare in mute shock at the boy-shorts sitting low on hips that sway a little as you put your apron back on and move the big spoon back and forth. 

That's when my cock -- my sleeping, useless, mushroom of a cock surges to life. It’s incredible. I haven't been this hard this fast in years. 

Is this just a reaction to your body? Is it because we're already breaking the law? Is it that I can almost smell you in the close confines of this place, or does it have more to do with the way Skyler barely paid attention as she stroked me the other night? She acted almost like a household chore, like doing the fucking dishes.

It took me so long to warm up that night. But now I'm ready. And now i do need to turn away because this has gotten out of hand. 

The egg timer beeps as it hits zero. I can hear you lay the spoon down and take off your gloves.

"Yo,” you question me, “did I do something wrong?"

"No, no, Jessie, it's fine."

Then, as if on cue, you step around me and see how fucking hard I am. 

"Uh, Mr. White . . . "

My first instinct is to stammer, to act like a high school teacher who’s done something wrong. But then I realize there is nothing to be ashamed of. I'm a man. You're a beautiful young woman who just stripped right in front of me. How the hell am I supposed to react?

I turn towards you to explain this. There are red lines across your face from where the goggles sat and it reminds me to take off my own. They thunk as they hit the floor. The gloves make little slaps.

And to my surprise, you don't flinch. You don't even get angry or upset. You look me straight in the eye. Then, against every expectation, you put your hand on me and squeeze. It’s instinct -- my hands find your upper arms. I can’t help but groan and push into the touch. Then you reach around to where my hot, sweaty cock is primed and ready for you and, incredibly, you smile. 

When your hand goes inside my briefs, I pull you against me, kiss your neck, taste warm salt and almost whimper against the smooth expanse of skin on top of your shoulder. This is too much. I should stop. I can’t stop. I want this.

I untie the apron and in one motion, take it off over my head, knocking my glasses off. It’s a shock to find you already on your knees. Without encouragement or even permission you tug my briefs down, take me into your hot, wet mouth, and suck as I thrust helplessly. Then there's no thought, no emotion, no anything except the slide of your capable lips, your head bobbing, as you demand from me until there's no resistance left. I give you everything. I flood your mouth and you swallow with a sigh that tells me that, somehow, you want this too.

It's the aftermath that is truly bizarre.

I stand there, gasping, a hand on the wall for support. You give back my glasses. You take a gulp of water from the jug and look straight at me while you are doing it with both eyebrows raised in some kind of salute. I pull up my underwear. You step into your shoes, and leave with a simple "bathroom" as your only explanation.

I stay put until the position becomes ridiculous. Then I sneak an arm out the window to retrieve what I should have been wearing the whole time. You took your clothes. The RV bears no trace of you except a hooded sweatshirt in the passenger’s seat.

You are gone long enough to cause concern. I look out several windows and find you standing, smoking in the afternoon shade. You are dressed and acting as if nothing much is on your mind. As usual.

I'm already at back at work when you return, grinding up cold tablets. You start in on the matchbooks. Neither of us speaks. I half expect Rod Serling to break the fourth wall with some kind of morality tale, but there’s only the desert and that damn raven again.

We work for hours. What little we say is all about the cook, the weather, the difficulties of getting pseudoephedrine at a time of year when so many people have allergies. You give no sign that anything happened. The only evidence that this was not a dream is that we are working together without arguing. 

I excuse you for the final steps. To be honest, I feel like I could use the solitude. By the time it's finished the first stars are showing in the clear desert air and the temperature has dropped considerably. You're back in your layers, outside, in a lawn chair, and I've put a sweater on. I open a beer that is still too warm. You've already had a few. 

Aside from the stars there's no light from anywhere but the RV. In the distance a pack of coyotes has started to go over its evening plans.

"That second batch is done."

You yawn but talk through it. "About time. Let me know when you want to get on the road."

I hesitate. "Jesse, about what happened ...."

"Huh?”

"You know, this afternoon, I just wanted - "

"Don't worry about it, Mr. White. It's no big deal."

Your reply floors me. I need a moment to recover. 

"I just wanted to be clear. I'm working on things with Skyler, and -"

"You worried I'll tell her? Nah." You grin at me but with another pull of you drink, the expression fades and you stare accusingly at the can. "Four in and this stuff is still nasty"

I try again. "Obviously, I trust you to be quiet. It's just -"

"Hahahahaha... oh my God, really?" 

You look over at me. You really see me for the first time and you are laughing.

"That sweater! Yo, Mr. White, where did you find that? Was it in the lost and found box at school?"

My teeth come together hard. "Now listen. None of what happened gives you the right to be disrespectful." 

"Yeah? Or you'll do what?"

The belligerence makes me realize for the first time how drunk you really are. "Nothing. Just... You don't need to make cracks."

There’s a snicker. "You said 'cracks'."

Your juvenile comment is too much. "Look, maybe you're used to things like this, but -"

"Hey, watch it!”

“Watch what?”

“You're calling me a slut? What the hell?”

It’s difficult to believe that this would even faze you. It’s impossible to think of a reply.

"Answer me, bitch!"

Suddenly I can't stand it. "Well, I didn't exactly need to bring you flowers." 

You get up and, before I can even react, slap me hard across the cheek. I grab your wrist and try to stand but that just gets me another cuff to the side of the head. You struggle. We both go down, but I roll on top of you and you're slight. My weight can hold you. 

"Get off of me!"

"Are you going to hit me again?"

"You had it coming!"

"Then we're staying here until you calm down."

"Until _I_ calm down? Are you serious?!”

You pull my hands up over your head and I fall forward. Somehow you have the leverage to get out from under me and suddenly kick me in the shins.

“You were the one shoving your cock down my throat! And that hands on the head thing? Ease the fuck up before you choke somebody.”

"That -- what?"

"You heard me. Now get up before I go all kung-fu on your ass.”

There is nothing to do but stand up. You are out of arm’s reach so it seems safe. As I’m getting to my feet you dust yourself off. Then, against

"Jesse ...." My hands are useless at my sides. 

_"What?"_

"I didn't mean --"

"Look. You take me to the middle of nowhere and come on to me, fine. I can be down. "

The realization slaps me harder than you did. 

"But I do what I want. If you're gonna get all me-Tarzan we are done. Now will you be cool and shut up about this?"

You stare at me, eyes hard, and for a moment I see part of what it takes for a woman, still kind of a girl, to make it this in this business.

Despite every instinct. I respect you. 


End file.
